


it's all semantics, isn't it

by djhedy



Series: sunrise, abram [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: A mystery, Cuddling, Healing, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Self-Reflection, Therapy, happiness, he wonders, hmmmmmm, it's what he does, mostly andrew over-thinking, what is happiness, while staring at neil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 19:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20999942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djhedy/pseuds/djhedy
Summary: Andrew’s aware he’s not like other people. He knows. Considers this as he observes Nicky, Kevin and Neil arguing over what should be allowed within Kevin’s dietary restrictions. Andrew has been stacking sugar packets on top of each other to make a pyramid.He’s not stupid. He can see his family making inane conversation with each other and getting something like joy out of it. Spends enough time in his head studying their reactions. He supposes he can see some value. It’s just.He doesn’t know how they can all give away something so freely, so frequently, all the damn time.---in which andrew spends some time wondering if he's whole, if he's enough, if he's happy. neil is patient and bee is contemplative and aaron exists which is enough to get him mocked tbh





	it's all semantics, isn't it

**Author's Note:**

> i dunno i was feeling v soft this morning and this is the result x

Andrew watches the tendril of smoke escape out the window, and leans his head back against the wall.

Stray words sometimes reach his ears, he thinks they’re discussing where to go for breakfast, but the smoke is doing this dissipating thing and he knows he only has a second before it – ah.

“We went to the diner last week.”

Andrew brings the cigarette back to his lips, this time closes his eyes as he sucks in a breath.

“So?”

Tar fills his lungs and nicotine hits his body and he feels it all the way down to his hips, the tips of his toes.

“That’s what you said _last week_."

Andrew exhales.

He thinks he’s missed part of the conversation.

“You always –”

Watches the smoke curl, clutch upwards at sky, wonders –

“Andrew?”

He sighs, feeling put upon. He was almost at a metaphor, maybe. He turns his face.

Neil is looking at him, all slow and calculating, like he’s waiting on Andrew, or maybe like he’s working something out. Andrew raises an eyebrow. Neil says, “You want to go out for breakfast?”

Andrew hums, flicks the tip of his cigarette against the window ledge, waits until Kevin and Nicky’s good natured bickering fills the suite again. He sticks the cigarette back between his lips and considers that Neil would probably want to go. Probably only asked Andrew because he didn’t want to leave Andrew alone. That pisses him off. In one breath he exhales and says, “I don’t need babysitting,” skipping a couple of lines.

When he turns back Neil is frowning. “What?”

This is the part of talking to people that Andrew can’t stand, has no patience for. The bit where no one understands him. It doesn’t usually happen with Neil. Maybe he miscalculated. He sucks in another breath from the cigarette, staring at the wall behind Neil’s head.

After a second Neil clicks his tongue and says, “I want you to come with us. But I’ll go without you if you’d rather stay here.”

More than nicotine hits his body this time, and he drops his gaze, something hot like irritation flooding his face. A miscalculation, then. Though from a liar, it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference. He makes a new calculation. Throw his cigarette out the window and slams it shut.

Andrew’s aware he’s not like other people. He knows. Considers this as he observes Nicky, Kevin and Neil arguing over what should be allowed within Kevin’s dietary restrictions. Andrew has been stacking sugar packets on top of each other to make a pyramid.

He’s not stupid. He can see his family making inane conversation with each other and getting something like joy out of it. Spends enough time in his head studying their reactions. He supposes he can see some value. It’s just.

He doesn’t know how they can all give away something so freely, so frequently, all the damn time.

When his sugar tower falls, paper packaging hurrying over each other in a satisfying rustle, he tunes back in to hear Nicky trying to convince Kevin that maple syrup is healthy.

“Nicky,” Kevin growls.

“Oh come _on_,” says Nicky, a grin pulling at his face, “it’s literally from _trees_, Kevin,” he adds as plates are placed in front of them, “it’s nature’s _sap_,” he continues, pulling the maple syrup towards him and squeezing a healthy amount onto his already ice cream laden pancakes, “God _wants_ us to have this.” He pushes the maple syrup over to Andrew.

“Amen,” mutters Andrew. He picks up the syrup and lets the heavy liquid spool and run all over his waffles, completely aware that everyone is staring at him.

Neil lets out a short laugh. “I think we’ve finally discovered how to convert Andrew.” His knee pushes against Andrew’s under the table, and, after a second, Andrew pushes back, leaves it there, tucked tightly against Neil’s leg, warm and steady. Glares at his plate.

Andrew slides into the car seat and makes a list of all the things he likes about his car. Homework from Bee. But then what wasn’t?

The warmth and friction from the leather seats. Number one. Even through thin sweatpants he can almost feel the car pulsing beneath him.

The noise it makes as he switches from first to second. Number two. In sync with the gasp he imagined would leave his throat if he was capable of giving that much away.

Dangling from the rear-view mirror is a car air freshener. It’s just hit his vision, which is why he thinks of it, almost immediately casts his eyes away to find something else. It almost certainly isn’t number fucking three. It’s white and pink, in the shape of a cupcake, and some genius had the idea of writing SWEET CANDY STORE in capital letters on it, as though that was a single smell you could market. Neil had picked it out, when they were shopping one day, lazily making their way through an aisle of car accessories, and he’d smiled at him at the check-out, and said, “Now your car will always smell of sweets.”

Andrew’s hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter, something tight pulling at his face. Beside him Neil says, “You ok?”

So he releases his breath, mutters, “Yes _mom_,” and relaxes as Neil smirks and looks away, content with this half-answer. Andrew knows he’ll ask again later.

Number four.

He doesn’t… even as the thought forms he barely wants to acknowledge it. Even in his own mind, acknowledging something so completely – idiotic. Seems.

But.

Number four.

Neil always sits up front with him.

Back at the dorm Nicky is complaining about something to Kevin when Andrew walks in, twirling his keys between his fingers. The second he steps into the living room they stop talking, and that has Andrew stilling. Neil emerges from the bedroom, backpack in one hand, the other rooting through it. Andrew snaps, “What,” the second he can’t stand it any longer.

Neil raises an eyebrow at him, turns to face the others.

Nicky looks uncomfortable but Kevin just crosses his arms. “Nicky doesn’t think it’s right we went without Aaron.”

At this Neil starts walking again, over to his desk, takes his books out. Andrew tries to untense his muscles.

Nicky elbows Kevin and says, “Traitor, it’s not like you disagree with me. Neil?”

“Staying out of it,” says Neil, and Andrew doesn’t know whether he likes that or not.

Nicky rolls his eyes and, with a glance at Andrew, slumps in a beanbag chair. “That doesn’t count, the day Neil has opinions on anything he can have a say in this.”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Andrew. He walks over to the wall and hops up onto Neil’s desk, crossing his legs under him and ignoring the unimpressed look Neil gives him. His own desk has less books on it, less Neil next to it.

“What doesn’t matter, Andrew?” tries Nicky, and there it is again. What has he miscalculated this time. What does he have to say to get them to _drop it_. A frown tugs at his face and something uncomfortable and hot, itchy and unwanted, threatens through him.

Neil sighs, too loud to be entirely believable, and says, “Nicky, drop it.”

“Oh so now you have an opinion?”

Neil turns his body to throw his glare at Nicky. “I don’t care that Aaron’s stopped joining us for breakfast. I care that you’re trying to pin that all on Andrew. Aaron’s the one with his legs wrapped around Katelyn right now.”

Neil must have been aware that a comment like that, on a bad day, might have just made things worse. But for _some reason _the idea of Neil getting so indignant about his waste of space brother having his way with some waste of space cheerleader makes Andrew smirk. When Neil turns back he catches it, and pauses, surprised, perhaps was turning back to check he hadn’t gone too far. Neil looks surprised, something relaxing across his face. When Neil smiles back at him all the breath leaves Andrew’s body.

Andrew gets some homework done and uses the half of his brain that isn’t memorising the names of who-gives-a-rats-ass legal cases to consider his problem.

Conversation has never been easy for him.

He thinks back to Bee’s homework. He’d said, _Sounds like a waste of thinking time_.

She’d said, _The point of it is to allow yourself to acknowledge that even though you find the concept of happiness difficult to grasp – nonetheless there are some things that _make_ you happy_.

Did the car make him happy? He taps his pen against the book resting on one knee. Underlines a sentence. Thinks he doesn’t really know what that would mean. Wonders if simply making choices was proof of happiness. Flicks a glance at Neil. He’s still sat at the same desk, writing an essay, notebook close to one of Andrew’s knees.

Wonders what Neil’s choices were based on. _The only one I’m interested in is you_.

But that line of thought had been tested, and exhausted, and he hadn’t come up with a satisfactory answer. Feels his head pound now with the effort of it.

He sighs. Grips his book tighter. Next to him Neil stops writing, only a brief thing, and gently taps his pen once against Andrew’s knee before returning it to the page. Andrew stares at his book, sees nothing.

Later, he’s laying with his back pressed against achingly hot concrete, the discomfort of it almost pain, beads of sweat tingling under his armbands, one hand over his face. Too hot.

Next to him, Neil says, “You’ll burn if you stay out here much longer.” Andrew grunts. Neil says, “You ever burn much as a kid?”

Not for the first time, Andrew overthinks Neil’s words. He’s used to it by now, the immediate analysis that comes with trying to have a conversation. And Neil’s used to it too, apparently, never pushes Andrew if it takes him a minute to answer the most inane questions. And, Andrew thinks, rubbing his hand off his face and blinking up at Neil – sitting next to him, knees drawn up to his chest, looking back at Andrew patiently, intently – Neil is new to this, too.

The weird thing is Andrew remembers conversation being easy, through a drugged haze, when everything was hilarious. It kind of makes his skin crawl.

“No,” he says, “I was smart enough to stay inside.”

“You grew up in California though,” says Neil. He smirks. “Why are you so pale?”

Andrew raises an eyebrow. “Complaining?”

As Neil lowers himself on one elbow Andrew thinks,_ why does anyone bother_, but when Neil says – close enough that Andrew can feel it on his face – “Not in the slightest,” Andrew thinks, _is this happiness?_ “Why would I complain about this face?” Andrew frowns, and it makes Neil laugh, and Andrew thinks, _is this happiness? _And Neil tentatively places a finger to Andrew’s cheekbone, and it’s enough to make him hate every bone in Neil’s body, so Andrew says,

“You’re an idiot.” Because he has to, because it’s required here, because Neil is the biggest idiot he’s ever met, because he doesn’t know why either of them are here, because

But Neil is just grinning harder, and says, “I like looking at you. What are you gonna do, kill me.”

Andrew lifts a hand and grips Neil’s shirt, near his neck, lets his knuckles graze his collarbone. “I fucking will if you keep looking at me like that.”

Neil rolls his eyes. “You think you’re so scary. It’s kind of cute.”

And that makes Andrew still.

Not that he was moving before, he doesn’t think.

But that’s just – unacceptable. He glares, mutters, “Unacceptable,” but it’s so inadequate, so much less than it needs to be, and he’s angry again, and god if Bee’s homework was to list everything Neil made him feel _angry _would be at the top of the list and everything on the list because it’s the only thing he makes him feel. It’s zero with everyone else and _hot piercing anger _with Neil. This couldn’t be happiness.

He wants to break away, wants to scoot over to the edge of the roof and glare at the ground until the warmth leaves his neck, wants Neil to stop looking at him like he can see everything.

They don’t move for a few minutes, and Andrew finally flicks his eyes away. Why doesn’t he just leave. This is ridiculous. He tightens his grip on Neil’s shirt.

Eventually, Neil says, “Your mom is unacceptable,” and a breath of laugh escapes Andrew. He feels betrayed by his own body.

Bee says, “Andrew, happiness is different for everyone.” Andrew folds his arms across his body. “No one feels happy all the time, and it will come to people from different places. It’s ok to say ‘my car makes me happy’ even if you’re not sure it’s true, that doesn’t make it a lie.”

Andrew grinds his teeth together. “Truth and lies are opposites, Bee.”

“Ok,” says Bee, slow, careful, “but we don’t know everything about ourselves. That makes the standard of everything having to be either a truth or a lie kind of impossible, don’t you think?” Andrew raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, so Bee asks, “Did you see the forecast for today?”

Andrew’s been at this long enough to know a trick when he hears one. But it’s usually more entertaining than anything else. So he rolls his eyes and says, “It’s going to rain later. That’s not a lie, it said so on my phone.”

Bee smiles and says, “If it doesn’t rain, then does that retroactively make what you just said a lie?”

“This is semantics.”

“Everything is.”

They’re at practise, and Andrew feels energised. He bounces a little on his feet. Then stills. Hopes no one saw. The ball is at the other end of the court, and his teammates are shouting to each other. He twirls his racquet in his hands. This isn’t an entirely foreign feeling, though it’s rare enough he hates that it probably has something to do with how they woke up.

Kevin hadn’t come home last night. They hadn’t known that at the time, so they’d just watched tv, Neil curled into Andrew’s body on a beanbag, Andrew running a gentle hand over Neil’s hip, Neil settled happy against him, sharing spoonfuls of ice cream, until eyes half-lidded they’d fallen into bed, fallen into sleep almost immediately. When Andrew woke up it was to a mouthful of Neil’s shirt, eyes opening enough to see Kevin’s bed untouched, realising his whole body was pressed against the side of Neil’s. He shifted backwards minutely, horrified, but his stirring had Neil shifting his eyes, placing a hand on Andrew’s hip, mumbling, “Morning.” As if them sleeping curled up together was a normal thing. As if they had ever touched while asleep. As if this wasn’t completely wrong. 

Neil must have realised Andrew’s silence was a _wrong _kind of silence, because he opened his eyes properly, blinked at Andrew. Blinked down at their tangled legs and said, “Oh. I guess, I guess we must have moved in our sleep.” He looked back up at Andrew. Tapped a finger against his hip. “Is this ok?”

Andrew was breathless. He didn’t know. He didn’t know if this was ok. He didn’t know.

“Hey,” said Neil, softer this time. “It’s ok. I like this. But I can move –” He started to shuffle back, only an inch, but Andrew reached out and grabbed his arm.

“No,” whispered Andrew, almost hoarse. His heart was beating a mile a minute but Neil was warm pressed against him, and his brain was threatening to over analyse this, but he thought he had a choice here, and wasn’t that all the difference? He settled back against Neil, watching his eyes for signs of discomfort, pressed their hips together, rubbed softly against Neil and watched as his eyes fluttered closed, a grin spreading across his face.

“Oh, you’re right,” whispered Neil. “I guess this does have its advantages.”

But Andrew had other plans. He was hard, sure, but that wasn’t really new, waking up even a gap apart from Neil as he usually did. Today he’d woken with his head a few inches down from Neil’s, pressed into his chest, and he just wanted – while they were here – in the name of _science _–

Neil’s hand curled round the back of Andrew’s head, slow like he always touched him, and held him there. Andrew pushed one hand under Neil’s body, round his back, the other gripping Neil’s shirt.

“Is this ok?” asked Neil quietly, fingers running through Andrew hair, the other hand stroking softly down his side.

“Mm,” said Andrew against his chest, because he didn’t know. He didn’t know.

He could feel Neil’s heart beating against his cheek.

A few minutes later sense got the better of him and he kissed Neil into the mattress, almost desperate to erase what had just happened. But Neil had just chuckled against his lips and said, “I like our way of waking up.”

Andrew grazed words across Neil’s lips, “Waste of time.”

“What, this?” Neil bit Andrew’s lip. “Shall I just leave then?”

Andrew gripped him tighter, pushed his body more firmly on top of Neil’s, pinning him against the bed, and said, “Everything about this is a waste of time.”

But Neil had just run his hands up Andrew’s arms, shaking beneath him, opening his mouth against Andrew’s, submitting himself entirely, said, “I like wasting time with you,” so Andrew had to kiss him hard enough to bruise, had to snake a hand under Neil’s sweatpants, had to make his eyes squeeze shut and his mouth open in a gasp, had to shut him up.

And now. Well. The ball hurls towards him at lightning speed and Andrew throws his racquet out to the side, catches it, flings it at Kevin, smirks at the look of surprise filtering out from under his helmet. He has to keep Kevin on his toes sometimes. Otherwise where was the fun in anything?

Andrew doesn’t mind the quiet. Doesn’t mind that he’s different. Spends more time in his head than he does out loud, and sometimes it’s exhausting, but he’s used to it. He doesn’t mind talking to some people – usually prefers when it’s just him and one other person, because any more than that can be exhausting, too. Bee asks him about this one day.

“Why do you think it’s easier for you when there’s only two people in a conversation?”

Andrew glares at her. “You’re the therapist.”

But Bee just smiles at him. “Do you think it has anything to do with who the other person is? Who do you feel comfortable talking to?”

Andrew crosses his arms. “You know the answer to that.”

“And you’re being difficult today.”

Andrew should feel annoyed at that accusation, but he can’t, partly because it’s true, and partly because the ability to call him out is sort of what he likes about Bee. He says, “I don’t know. Renee. Neil. You.”

“Is that all?”

Andrew shrugs. “Kevin, when he shuts up about exy. Nicky, when he shuts up about – actually scratch that.”

Bee is smiling again. “Ok,” she says. “You’ve just listed quite a few people. Anyone would be lucky to have five people in their life they feeling comfortable talking to one-on-one.”

“Four,” mutters Andrew.

“Does thinking about the fact that you have five people in your life, in your family, who you don’t mind having a conversation with – who you see every day – who you trust – who you know trust you – does thinking about that make you uncomfortable, or happy?”

Andrew grunts. “What’s the difference?”

Bee says, “The difference is whatever you want it to be. What do you _want_ to be, Andrew?”

But he doesn’t think it’s that simple. He’s not one of these new age fucking hippy types that thinks the meaning of life is _happiness_. He’s sat in the living room with his family – Aaron tucked into one corner in conversation with Matt and Nicky, as far away from Andrew as possible – and he thinks for him it’s closer to keeping them safe. Happiness. The meaning of life. Whatever.

He sighs, drinks some more whisky. Is bored thinking about this. Except he isn’t, is he, or he’d have stopped weeks ago.

Neil nudges against him on the sofa and says, “He showed up then.” Andrew shrugs. Neil says, “Coward. Where’s Katelyn if he’s such a tough guy?” Andrew knows that Neil knows that shit talking his brother is a good way to cheer Andrew up, and that pisses him off. That Neil knows that. That he’s doing it to make Andrew smile. That his lips, unbidden, pull into a smirk against his face.

“That makes no sense,” says Kevin from his place on the floor. He frowns at Neil.

Neil, not entirely sober, points a finger at Kevin. “Takes one to know one.”

“I… what?”

“Coward,” agrees Andrew, his own sobriety not 100%, nodding at Neil. They clink their glasses and Kevin rolls his eyes, lifts off the floor and moves over to join the other group.

It’s been a while since they were drunk together, maybe since the cabin, maybe Eden’s a month ago, Andrew isn’t sure. But something about the lightness in the air makes everything seem up for grabs, so he leans towards Neil and says in a low voice, “His mother taught him cowardness.” Wants to laugh. Thinks it’s a funny thing to say.

Impossibly, Neil snorts. “That’s funny,” he says. “If anything about him was funny. God if only he had a sense of humour.” Sadness spreads across his face. He raises his voice and shouts half-heartedly across the room, “Aaron what’s it like not to be funny at all?”

Andrew can’t help it, his body wants to laugh, but he doesn’t really have the capacity for it, so instead he buries his face in his hand, shakes into it slightly, hears Aaron’s confused, “Huh?” and then, “Are you two drunk?”

“At least Andrew thinks I’m funny,” Neil says, staring contemplatively into his glass, leaning against Andrew, and Andrew looks at him, and tries not to smile.

Matt says, “Have I had too much beer or are they being _cute_?”

Nicky says, “Oh my god they are.”

Aaron says, “I’m funny.”

Kevin says, “You better be focused at practise tomorrow.”

And Andrew thinks they’ve probably had enough. He grips Neil’s upper arm so that they stand together, hauls him towards the bedroom, ignores whatever noises follow them out.

In bed, a gap between their bodies, but fingers touching each other gently – Andrew’s in Neil’s hair, Neil’s against Andrew’s hip – Neil says, “You’ve been quiet the last couple of weeks.” Andrew raises an eyebrow, and it’s his attempt at making a joke, him saying _how can you tell_, and Neil smirks and says, “I can tell. You’ve been quieter.” It’s not a question so Andrew doesn’t respond, moves his hand down Neil’s head, fingers playing in the hairs at the back of his neck. “If you want to talk about something, you can.” Neil brushes a thumb under the hem of Andrew’s shirt, rubbing lightly against his skin. “You don’t have to have everything figured out before you say it aloud.”

“You’re impossible,” Andrew says, because he’s a little drunk, and it’s the first thing that comes to mind. It comes out a little too wondrous, a little too awed, and for a second he hopes Neil miscalculates, will take him to mean _you’re infuriating _rather than _you shouldn’t exist_ but of course Neil rarely miscalculates this thing between them.

So Neil says, “Takes one to know one,” and looks like he’s trying hard not to laugh, lower lip caught between his teeth, something shining in his bright eyes, which is just, so – Andrew glares at him and in one motion pushes his hand down to Neil’s lower back, pulls him forward in his arms, kisses him.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters when he finally breaks the kiss, when he’s sure Neil’s learnt his lesson.

Neil sighs against him. He says, “I mean it Andrew. If anything is going on, you can tell me, if you want to. Or I can ask, if that makes it easier. I want to know. But not if you don’t want me to.”

Andrew’s eyes are still closed, and he thinks he’s frowning as he kisses Neil again. Something flutters in his stomach, something that doesn’t like being seen – or maybe it’s the opposite – and he says, “It’s nothing.”

“Ok,” says Neil, easy, but leaving space in case there’s more.

“Just – something Bee said.”

“Mm?”

Andrew nudges Neil’s nose with his own and clasps his arm tighter round him. Manages a tight, “Happiness.”

Doesn’t know if Neil will get it.

For a second, panic threatens at the tight skin on his body. He didn’t mean –

“I know what you mean,” says Neil, because after all he’s impossible. Andrew opens his eyes to see Neil gazing intently at him, only a breath away. Darts his eyes to Neil’s lips. Kisses them once. Looks back into his eyes. Waits. Neil says, “It’s hard.”

Andrew huffs against Neil’s lips. “For an exy junkie?” he mutters.

When Neil shrugs Andrew feels it down his whole body, and clutches them even tighter together. “That was survival, not happiness.” Something in Neil’s eyes makes Andrew’s stomach clench. Neil’s hand snakes around Andrew’s back and there’s so little space between them now it’s a wonder they can get words out at all.

Andrew’s throat feels dry, so he swallows. “And now?”

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t want to miss Neil’s answer. He feels uncomfortable and hazy and unsure and like his whole body is pressed into hot concrete. Neil feels so sturdy against him.

Sometimes Andrew thinks he could barrel into Neil and neither of them would hit the ground.

Neil says, “I don’t care what we call it. I think I’m happy. I don’t really care. I can’t really believe I’m alive, so anything else – but yeh. I –” He falters. Frowns at Andrew. Brings up a hand to run fingers into his hair. “I can’t imagine anything else.”

Andrew can’t speak. Doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or the late hour or Neil’s words but all he has to do is brush his lips and they’re kissing again. It’s slow, and tentative, and makes Andrew’s skin crawl with the gentleness of it – or maybe that’s just Neil’s fingers skimming up and down his arms, over his hips, up the back of his tshirt, rolling Andrew on top of him, his hands never stilling, skimming across his skin like he’s tracing goosebumps.

Andrew wants to say it too, but the words are caught in his mouth, and he doesn’t know if it’s true, so as Neil’s finger toys with the edge of his sweatpants he hunts for something he can say that is.

He gets what Bee was saying, he does – not everything has to be a truth or a lie, but – it feels incredibly important in this moment to know the difference.

Finally, minutes or hours later, Neil panting into his mouth, Andrew says, “This doesn’t make me unhappy.”

Because it’s true. It doesn’t. He doesn’t know what happiness is, but he understands choice, pretty fundamentally, pretty traumatically had choice and the opposite hammered into him at a young age. Understands him and Neil have been choosing to leave Neil’s bed unoccupied for months now, choosing to spend as many seconds of the day together as possible, choosing these attempts at communication in these stilted ways, often throwing their bodies together more successfully than their words, but trying.

One of Neil’s hands squeezes Andrew’s bicep, the other tugging gently in his hair. Andrew can’t tell if the shaking is from laughter or, well. Andrew feels their desire coursing against each other, ceaseless, unstoppable. Rolls their hips together again. Again. Again. Neil breathes out shakily and says, “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”

So Andrew bites at Neil’s lower lip, says, “Don’t get used to it,” and now Neil is definitely laughing, so Andrew starts kissing down his chest, enjoying the vibrations against his lips, before moving further down, thoroughly intending to shut him up.

A few days later, Andrew says, “It’s about choice.”

And Bee just smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe i've never written an andrew pov before? it seems like it's going to be impossible to get it right, to be canonical, and it is, hence slightly ooc andrew, but hey where would be the fun if there wasn't a little post-canon character development?? anyway. #andrewminyardrights #everyonedeserveshappiness xxx


End file.
